


The Art Of Pretending

by ScandalousMinds



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Emotional Infidelity, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Gen, Insecure Sherlock, Internal Conflict, Internal Monologue, Jealous Sherlock, Lack of Communication, Loss of Trust, M/M, Multi, POV Alternating, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Trust Issues, Unreliable Narrator, couples therapy, implied infidelity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-12 04:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2095785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScandalousMinds/pseuds/ScandalousMinds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Confession is not always good the soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Weight Of Forever

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously, I don't own Sherlock I Just Belong to it's fandom!  
> Apologies for any spelling or grammar errors

_He knows._

Of course he does.

 

John knows that Sherlock **knows**. John knows that Sherlock knows _he_ knows.

**Neither speak the words. Neither dare to.**

 

Neither of them are brave enough to explore what…hearing or…saying the words aloud could mean. Mean for them. Their work. Their life. Their happiness…

No.

  
The burden is John Watson’s cross to bear.  
And his… **alone**.  
  


 **That** is _his_ penance.  
 **That** is _his_ punishment.  


John could have confessed. John could have confessed a thousand times over. He could have cried, dropped to his knees and begged for forgiveness. Begged for absolution. He _could_.

Except…he couldn’t. Not really.

Confession is only a blessing for the person despatching of the load. A tonic for one can be a plague for another. Once a confessor has freed their shoulders of the hulking weight. The confessee has to lift and carry the burden of it forever. Crumble underneath the heft.

And…forever is a long, **long** time.

Some _may_ argue that the very concept of ‘forever’ is a _complicated_ one. John Watson would definitely argue that the concept was indeed a complicated one.

Why?

Well…simply (well maybe not ‘simply’ per say) it can be a multitude of things. A multitude of ‘too many’ things. A multitude of too many ‘conflicting’ things. ‘Forever’ can simultaneously be too long and…too short. Too much yet…not enough. Everything but…nothing. Painful though…at the same time healing. A blessing yet still…a heart crushing curse. If you were to ask John what he thought of forever when used in the context of he and Sherlock he would say (without a hint of hesitation)“it’s not enough. Forever with this man could **never** be long enough.”

But…if you were to ask him about forever in the context of his ‘secret’ he would without question, undoubtedly answer you with six words. “Too long. Much, much too long.” But, then he would inhale, close his eyes, shake his head and whisper just three small words embedded with nothing but utter regret. “Not long enough.”

John Watson’s ‘secret’ burned him. It scarred him from the inside out. It maimed him with ugly scarlet blisters. It felt like bruising, haemorrhaging, fire and ice all at the same time.

And yet…John knew.

Knew that if Sherlock were to hear John say the words. If Sherlock were to hear them out loud. If John’s betrayal wasn’t just suspicion, wasn’t just instinct, if it were no longer just an itchy feeling in the back of his subconscious. If it were real and true and bruising and painful. It would incinerate him. It would burn him to ash and disseminate him into microscopic dust particles and leave nothing left.

Yes, John Watson may burn but Sherlock Holmes would perish. And John Watson would never allow for that to happen. Never.

Confession is **not always** good the soul.


	2. The Colossal Pink Elephant

Life in 221b was normal. Except…except for when it wasn’t. Now there were days when too many words went unsaid. Now there were awkward silences where their thoughts stilted their half-hearted conversations that both only participated in now out of duty.

Sherlock still spoke out loud and John still listened. Or at least John tried to listen but often now Sherlock would speak aloud too low to actually be heard at all. That was new. A new habit Sherlock had developed two weeks ago. Almost a whole two days after John’s…well…after. John still made tea. Actually he made buckets of the stuff, neither really drank them. Sherlock often just took a few cursory sips to be polite and then left the rest to turn cold and John used his mugs of the herbal beverage as a buffer. A buffer to keep the words on his tongue firmly in his mouth. A buffer to keep Sherlock’s deductions at bay.

John hoped that perhaps if Sherlock couldn’t see the downward tilt of his mouth or his biting of his overly-bitten cheek and the restlessness of his hands, maybe they could forget. Maybe they could move forward. Pretend properly everything was fine. Pretend they weren’t both putrefying on the inside.

***

Life in 221b was slowly becoming more and more intolerable with each passing day and yet neither occupant made any moves to rectify it, neither chose to speak of colossal pink elephant in the room. The one practically crushing the air out of them.

Both resolutely refused to acknowledge it.

But…others could see. Others tried to approach the subject (delicately of course) but they were only met with polite brush offs or feigned confusion.

The first was Mrs Hudson. Of course it was. The woman saw them every day, she knew them as well as she would know her own children. She tackled Sherlock first, mostly because he was the easiest to get to. John knew she wanted to ‘talk’ and that was the one thing he absolutely couldn’t do. So, he did what any self-respecting man would do when he knew a woman wanted to get something out of him.

He dodged her.

He dodged her like a pro. He left in the morning before she woke up to bring them tea. He arrived later, when he knew she’d have taken her herbal soothers and have gone to bed. He made up calls on his mobile as he hurried passed her. He pretended he had friends he was late to meet. He invented patients he had to see.

He simply…dodged.

And so…she went for Sherlock instead. The man was the easier target. He did three things during his days and they were experiments, cases and trips to his mind palace, two of which he did at home. There’s actually been times he’s even managed all three from the comfort of their very own sofa.

He was a sitting duck to the older lady and he didn’t even know it.

“Sherlock?” Sherlock didn’t bother to look up from his leisurely sprawl on the sofa, he knew Mrs Hudson would continue on anyway. She would just carry on pottering and tutting at the mess he had made on the kitchen table like a disproving mother.

“Mrs Hudson?”

“What’s going on?” Sherlock startled a little not only at the stern lilt in her voice but at the fact she had materialised at his side remarkably quickly for a woman of her age (with a dodgy hip). His face schooled quickly and he turned back towards his prayer pose.

“And to what would you be referring to?”

“You won’t pull that with me young man. I know you too well. And I know you know exactly what I’m ‘referring’ to.”

“I have no clue. I do hope you’re not going batty in you old age or perhaps I should say battier. You know the average age of senility is—”

“Stop that!” Mrs Hudson’s hands were firmly on her hips and Sherlock hoped she’d just…go away.

“Mrs Hudson… I am very busy and I haven’t—”

“Did I not say stop? Something is happening with you two. Something terrible. And you need to nip it right in the bud. The atmosphere in here is poison and it will kill what you two have. Is that what you want? Sherlock? Is it?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed deeply against his staggering lack of lung capacity at her words. “Mrs Hudson. _Please_.” Sherlock wasn’t sure if it were his pleading tone or whatever facial expression had been on his face, but Mrs Hudson’s mouth parted in a surprised yet silent gasp and within an instant she had closed it, nodded minutely and turned back towards the kitchen and began muttering about how sludge was simply ‘not made for kitchen sinks Sherlock’ and Sherlock had mumbled out replies with feigned nonchalance as they both pretended nothing was wrong.


	3. Something Miraculous

The second person to pick up on the icy air between the two of them, of course could only have been Mycroft. However unlike Mrs Hudson, Mycroft knew instantly just **what** was causing the thick atmosphere. After all no one could read a room better, even Sherlock could admit that (not with any pleasantness mind you but nonetheless he could admit it _if pushed_ ).

When Mycroft walked into 221b John was sat in his chair with a book he was in no way reading and Sherlock was in the kitchen preforming an experiment on a 20 year old mould sample trying to log findings, although he was struggling to see how they correlated especially since he was watching John in his peripheral, who had been non-reading the same page for the past two hours.

Mycroft sauntered further into the small flat, with his umbrella in hand and subtly surveyed both men who had both undeniably heard his approach but had determinedly refused to acknowledge it. Both knew eye contact would give away their ‘situation’ quicker than they were ready for it to of been…given away. The action however had without doubt been in vain. Mycroft sussed it instantly. He read it in Sherlock’s bone straight posture and stiff movements. John’s twitching cheek which let Mycroft know John knew he was watching him. He walked to the window and looked out graphing the quiet traffic. When he spoke both men stiffened with dreaded expectancy.

“Seldom are things more complicated than when they are of the heart.”

John swallowed hard and Sherlock fumbled his hold on a glass slide. Neither man moved their gaze from their chosen distraction nor did Mycroft discontinue from gazing outward.

“It is twenty-eight degrees outside and yet within your four walls it appears to be minus fourteen. Why is that I wonder?”

Sherlock drops the slide entirely and stands abruptly as Mycroft turns slowly. John resolutely does not look up, Sherlock wouldn’t have thanked him for it anyway.

Sherlock’s words come out as a prickly hiss. “Why. Are. You. Here?”

“I worry.”

“Lies.”

“Sherlock. Where you’re concerned, all I ever do is _worry_.”

Sherlock’s gaze dropped for precisely two seconds before his scowl is steadfastly back in place.

“No need.”

Mycroft arched a disbelieving brow in return and his gaze flitted over John. If Sherlock had of blinked he might have missed it. Sherlock didn’t blink.

The elder Holmes pursed his lips minutely. “I beg to differ.”

Sherlock bristled defensively. “Don’t!”

John didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Barely breathed at all in fact he just remained staring at the slightly unsteady book in his hand.

“I…I have a ‘friend’—” Sherlock snorted with ugly derision but the elder Holmes continued on “—he and his wife visited a _lady_ whom I believed has a speciality within ‘marital issues’ I’m told her turnaround of them was nothing short of miraculous. I believe their situation was…similar. Perhaps you might want to—”

Sherlock became rigid instantly as his eyes zeroed in even harder on his brother. “My marriage does not need some nosy bint nosing around in it. It also doesn’t need a ‘lady’ with a ‘speciality’. Feel free to leave now.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “You believe this to be healthy?”

Sherlock growled. “Leave!”

“It is fixable at present, Sherlock. I doubt it will be so six months from now.”

Sherlock pointed an outstretched hand to the doorway vibrating with rage, resembling an angry two year old and shouted “Leave. Now!”

Mycroft sighed a deeply pained sigh like only an older sibling can express. “I care deeply. For you both…” John finally looked up and was utterly dumbstruck, Sherlock didn’t look any better. “…I wish for this…‘thing’ to be resolved before it becomes _unresolvable_. Mistakes are made. Words are said. Actions are… in any regards I have a number…for the lady. Should you need it, simply…ask.”

“Say nothing else! Leave! Now! I nor John need any number. Is that clear?”

Mycroft looked down at John who looked back with haunted eyes and oddly Mycroft’s gaze seemed…soft? John felt a cold pang of confusion but the look was gone instantly.

“Very well brother mine. Should the number be needed. Let me know.” And with that Mycroft walked out and made his way down the stairs and out of the door. Then he was gone.

Sherlock hesitated in the archway torn between saying something snide about Mycroft and going back toward his experiment (to avoid John).

Sherlock chose the latter.

John pretended not to see and Sherlock let him. This was their life now. Pretending. Always pretending. John tried hard to forget what Mycroft had said but if he were to be completely honest Mycroft wasn’t wrong. John and Sherlock right now weren’t great, John and Sherlock in three months let alone six would be…John didn’t want to think of what they could be like in six months.

He didn’t like how they were now. Yes. Yes, it was all his fault and yes he was last person who deserved any right to complain. And so he didn’t. He let Sherlock lead just like he always did and just like always he followed.

But…it was no life. What they were living presently wasn’t actually...living. It was existing and it was cold and painful and it was all John’s fault.

And although he knew he had no right to want to make them better. He needed to.

Whatever Sherlock might think they needed that number.

They needed something _miraculous_.

John was going to have to do the one thing he swore he would try to avoid at all costs.

John was going to have to talk with Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay with this chapter.  
> Enjoy!


	4. Weighing The Pros and Cons

 

John spent two days weighing the pros and cons of approaching Sherlock unfortunately the list had turned out to be irritatingly balanced on both sides. Literally for every pro there was a con and for every con there was an undeniable pro.

John’s list went something like this…

> **_Con:_ ** _Approaching Sherlock would mean they would have to talk._
> 
> **_Pro:_ ** _Approaching Sherlock would mean they would have to talk. _
> 
> _**Con:** Sherlock would get angry._
> 
> **_Pro:_ ** _Sherlock would finally show some emotion._
> 
> _**Con:** Sherlock would get defensive._
> 
> **_Pro:_ ** _Sherlock getting defensive means he actually cares._
> 
> _**Con:** Sherlock would say things. Mean things. Things meant to cause maximum hurt._
> 
> **_Pro:_ ** _Sherlock only says mean things (specifically made to hurt) if he himself is hurt. Which once again at least shows some emotion._
> 
> _**Con:** Sherlock would say no._
> 
> **_Pro:_ ** _Sherlock would say no (John himself is not much of a fan of talking about emotions either)._
> 
> **_Con:_ ** _Sherlock would say yes (which would be a clear sign of just how bad things were if even Sherlock king of the self-proclaimed sociopaths actually also thought they needed some outside help)._
> 
> **_Pro:_ ** _Sherlock would say yes and they could fix themselves or at least start to._

It had become exhausting trying to imagine every possible outcome and reaction. John knew only precisely two things for definite. One: he needed to time it right, timing it wrong would lead to ugliness. Two: he needed to do it, regardless of whatever ugliness or acerbic words that might come his way. They needed fixing and quickly.

John decided. When Sherlock got home from the morgue later he would talk to him...

***

…at least, he had decided until Sherlock arrived home three hours later in a particularly foul-mood. John suspected he knew why as Sherlock flung off his coat onto the sofa and stormed into the kitchen practically throwing the plastic wrapped severed arm into the sink as he stormed into the bathroom.

John sighed. ‘The bathroom’ Sherlock’s new favourite place to hide. From life, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft, sometimes the work/Lestrade. But, more often these days…from John.

John decided to take the not-so-hint-like hint and let him be for a while.

It wasn’t chickening out.

It was self-preservation.

***

Sherlock slammed the bathroom door behind him and began pacing in angry, small little circles.

‘How dare she!’ was all that kept rushing through his mind ‘How DARE she!’

The bathroom over the past few weeks had become some sort of safe haven for Sherlock. He found it to be the only place he could think or be left alone. No one tried to pry in here. Granted, it wasn’t the best of places but he had to work with what he had.

The living room was stuffy and awkward and he always felt Mrs Hudson’s eyes on him when he wasn’t looking and he also felt John’s lack of eyes on him. Yes. John avoided eye contact like the plague these days. The kitchen was likewise out because of the same reasons. The bedrooms were also not applicable. John’s old bedroom would have been too obvious and would show too overtly that Sherlock himself was in fact ‘hiding’ and their bedroom was too cold and claustrophobic these days to even sleep in let alone think, which only left the bathroom.

Sherlock had also had the morgue but that was **firmly** out now too because of _“that blasted, interfering…”_

It was all he had outside of the flat… it was all he had to distract him from how things were now.

Yes, John still came on cases, which was oddly comforting and when he and John ran and worked and investigated it felt like before. It felt...good.

Well, until it didn’t. Until they got home and the smiling stopped and the conversation stilted. And, that was when he would escape to the morgue to think or…not think depending on which he preferenced at that particular time.

And _now,_ Stupid Molly bloody Hooper had taken away the only place he had for respite that wasn’t a place where one went to empty their bladder.

He had known by her overly chirpy yet tentative approach what she was working her way up to.

***

_“Sherlock? Are you okay?”_

_“What? Oh yes I’m fine.” Sherlock had looked up narrowing his eyes slightly. “Why?”_

_“Oh nothing. It’s nothing. It’s just…Um how’s John?”_

_Sherlock eyes tightened and Molly shifted uncomfortably. “He’s fine. Why? What are you so…?”_

_Sherlock stopped._

_She knows._

_Sherlock knew that she knew and Sherlock knew that she knew that he knew._

_God. It was all so convoluted._

_“Look…Sherlock if you ever—“_

_“I’m going to stop you right there Molly. You see, I have no need for a sympathetic shoulder to cry on **especially** one that belongs to someone in such a…compromising position. By which of course I mean your conflicting relationships with myself and John. Considering, the fact that you still have this pathetic hope that the end of my marriage will be a possible beginning of a relationship with you. How do you rationalise that in regards to your friendship with John? Or could you live with the betrayal of a friend if said friend in your opinion had it coming because of their own perceived betrayal? Did I lose you there? No need answer. I can tell by the glassy look in your expression I did, so allow me to try again in simpler terms. Ready? Good, because you know how I hate to repeat myself. Please understand me Molly Hooper I do not need your pity or your sympathy or your dogged little fixation. All I require from you is access to bodies and equipment and when I say bodies please be aware I do NOT mean **yours**. _

_Now, if you please I’ll take my severed arm to go.”_

 ***

Even thinking back over it made Sherlock’s blood boil. Stupid. Everyone was just so _stupid_. Sherlock eventually stopped pacing and settled with his back against the door.

This was hell.

How long were they meant to do this for?

How long until John Left?

The very thought made Sherlock ache in places he didn’t know he had access to. Everyone kept reminding him, kept suggesting as if it...

…as if it were just a matter of time before he was left on his own…again.

With a deep sigh Sherlock pushed himself off of the door and flushed the toilet. He knew John was aware he hadn’t been in here using it but they both pretended otherwise. It was easier that way.

Although…the pretending itself was getting a little bit harder every day.

Sherlock ran the tap for a few seconds and then turned it off, opening the door and stepping into the small hallway and walking into the kitchen. Sherlock was just about to reach for the severed arm when he stopped; feeling eyes on him, he’d didn’t turn.

He couldn’t bear to see what expression John was going to have on his face. This was it. It was now. John was going to leave him. John was going to tell him this was it and he was going to walk out and…leave. Sherlock didn’t want to see that so he just…didn’t turn.

 

“Sherlock. Can we talk…please?” John’s tone was quiet but strong.

_‘Determined then’_ Sherlock thought _‘no way around it’._ Sherlock breathed in deeply “alright.”

“Are you going to—to turn around?”

“I don’t think so. No.”

“Right, right okay then.”

“I will be listening. It…it’s just easier this way…for me.”

“Oh. I see. Okay then.”

“Just begin, John.” Sherlock’s voice had a weak bite within it, but John didn’t seem to react to it. The room felt as though it were spinning, getting smaller and darker all at the same time. Sherlock felt himself sway a little at the feeling.

“I don’t know where to start…um…well, I think we both know… Sherlock? Sherlock? SHERLOCK!”

 

John caught him before he hit the ground and they both tumbled to the floor gracelessly with John making sure to take the brunt force of the fall. As soon as he was able John maneuvered them so he could cradle Sherlock properly, lightly tapping his cheek asking him to open his eyes.

"Sherlock?"

“Sherlock? Come on! You scaring me now!” After a few seconds the detectives eyes fluttered open only to close again just as quickly.

“Oh thank god. Sherlock? Sherlock can you talk for me?”

Sherlock tried but all that came out was a strained gasp. The only thing running through the detectives mind was ‘please don’t go, please don’t leave me.’

“Sherlock? I need you to say something… otherwise I’ll have to take you in.”

Sherlock shook his head slowly, regretting it instantly as his head swam.

“Well then speak you moron.” John spat out.

Sherlock smiled a little at the insult which was so like the ‘old John’ he felt warm for a moment before he remembered that… John was going to…leave.

So he spoke.

He spoke the only words that were on his tongue.

“Please don’t leave me John.”

John inhaled sharply and Sherlock kept his eyes closed.

Well, it seemed the pretending was over either way now, anyway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A nice slightly longer chapter by way of a apology for the lateness of this chapter. The next won't take a long, I swear.
> 
> Apologises for any errors.  
> Enjoy.


	5. Now or Never

John’s brain slowed down and practically stalled upon hearing Sherlock’s words.

‘ _What?_ ’ was all John could hear echoing through his mind as stared at the detective who at that moment had his eyes painfully crushed closed, John’s mind ran wild as if stuck on a disorientating repeat cycle.

Sherlock thought John was going to leave?

_Sherlock_? Thought _John?_ Was going to leave _him_?                             

_John?_ _Leave_?

_What_?

It made no sense, literally none. If anyone was going to be left it would be John. That was how they worked, Sherlock led and John followed. Sherlock made a decision and John just had to live with it. Yes, of course he complained ( **like any self-respecting person would** ) but he always went along with what Sherlock wanted in the end or…at least, he tried to.

How could Sherlock think John could leave? Yes, John had made a…terrible, terrible mistake and he regretted it with everything he had. And, if he was any kind of man at all…he would leave.

He… **should** have left the moment he even _suspected_ Sherlock had…known.

He **should** have saved Sherlock.

Saved, him from a grey future of having to live a half-life of pretending and hiding within bathrooms.

He _should_ have, but…he **didn’t**.

John had been a soldier and he was still a Doctor. He’d lost a few but he’d saved and healed many more than he’d lost. To most people John was— _is_ — _was_? A good man, a patient man, a man with good heart. All of which could at times be very true. However, they could also be…not _false_ per say but…inaccurate or maybe a better description could be ‘ _not quite the full profile_ ’.

You see, the one thing John was painfully aware of was his biggest character flaw. Beyond his need for danger or his quick temper or even his **appalling** communication skills.

There was a bigger flaw. A flaw, that meant he would always be… _compromised_.

The flaw? Simply put…when it came to Sherlock at his very core, at his very epicentre -- John was utterly **selfish**.

If you were to ask John to borrow his last pound, he give it to you in a heartbeat. If you were to ask him to work late, he’d do it no problem. If you were to ask him for an organ donation, _well_ … he probably wouldn’t give you his on that account (because with Sherlock you’re never really sure what bodily damage you may sustain or what organs you may need two of.) But, if you needed an organ John would do as much as he could on the medical side and stick with you every single step of the way.

But, if you were to ask the Doctor to give up Sherlock, the answer would be quick and it would be simple.

**Never**.

John would never leave Sherlock. He would hold on until everything they had crumbled and disintegrated between his fingers. And, he still wouldn’t let go.

Sherlock would have to leave him, because as close as John had come a few times he could never be the one to pack up and move out or move on. This was it. Sherlock, was it. Whether either of them liked it or not John could never leave.

John’s mouth started moving before he even told it to. “Y—you think I’m going to leave you?”

Sherlock said nothing, but his eyes remained tightly closed.

“Me? Me leave you?”

Sherlock blew out a shaky breath. “John—”

“How would that even work? I—I can’t even picture that…not—not even hypothetically.”

Sherlock’s brow creased; with his eyes still closed he looked like a bizarre cartoon character. A sad smile brushed John’s lips momentarily before it was gone.

Sherlock’s voice was hoarse when he spoke again. “What? What does that mean?”

“It means I can’t picture myself not being here…with you.”

Sherlock’s eyes opened carefully taking a few seconds to adjust to the light. “So you’re…not…”

“Leaving? No. Not unless you ask me to. No.”

“But—but you ‘wanted to talk’. You…”

John inhaled a breath of understanding. “Oh, I see now. No. No, I Just wanted to talk. Honestly, that was all. I wanted to run… _something_ by you.”

Sherlock’s stumbling over his words, still always managed to catch John by surprise. “So you weren’t…this wasn’t you…?”

“Announcing my departure?”

“Mmm.”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Oh.” John answered back. His brain was more or less back online and he swiftly fell into ‘Doctor’ mode. “When did you last eat Sherlock?”

“I…” Sherlock visibly couldn’t remember and that was a distinctive sherlockian indication it had been way too long.

“What do you do with the meals I leave on the side for you?”

“Use them.”

“Use them to eat or use them to experiment with?”

“I _use_ them, John.”

John sighed. “Come on get up I’ll make you something to eat, and maybe some tea. Your blood sugar must be pretty none existent right now.”

Sherlock allowed himself to be pushed and then pulled to his feet, before turned a scrutinizing eye on John. “What was it?”

“What was what?”

“What was it you wanted to talk about?”

“Oh, it…it can wait until after you’ve eaten.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why not now?”

“Because you just fainted.” Sherlock prickled at the very notion _he_ could ever do something as common as ‘faint’.

“I did not ‘ _faint_ ’.” The last word was voiced in pure disgust.

“Right. Of course not.”

Sherlock sniffed indignantly, but let John’s obvious faux pandering slide and didn’t go any further with it.

“Come on let’s get you some food.”

John went about fixing Sherlock some toast and tea. He made sure to slather the toasted bread with an abundant amount of honey just like Sherlock preferred and stirred in the perfect ratio of milk and sugar, (which Sherlock also preferred). John did so without even thinking about it, his mind too full of dread at how to approach the whole ‘therapy conundrum’.

John must have tuned out and begun functioning on auto pilot because before long he was in the sitting room facing the window with no memory of having walked there or having given Sherlock his toast and tea. Which, evidently he had as it was the sound of cutlery hitting the sink that had dragged him out of his trance-like state. John stayed facing the window as he tried to listen out for Sherlock’s silent footsteps.

“So?” Sherlock prompted.

“ _So_?” John echoed. He wasn’t sure how he could still feel so utterly unprepared for this conversation, but he did. Completely.

“Are you going to tell me?”

“I…um, I…yes!”

“Eloquent.” Sherlock bit out. John was prepared for _this_ part of Sherlock, he was used to it. He didn’t exactly _like_ it, but it was Sherlock’s way. He had no patience for idiocy, sometimes it felt like he had no patience for John.

“Would you rather I guessed?”

John smirked a little or rather imitated a smirk. “You don’t guess.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “Oh, you know what I mean. Would you rather I deduced it? It wouldn’t end well…but if you’re unable to…”

“No. no, don’t deduce.” John knew just like Sherlock did, that if Sherlock deduced John currently they would perhaps _both_ hear things aloud, they’d rather they hadn’t.

“Then I suggest you begin and ‘ _run_ ’ whatever it was you’ve been fretting over by me, or I’ll find out for myself.”

It wasn’t really a _threat_ but it was ‘ _something_ ’ John knew that Sherlock knew that the thought of John’s thoughts being laid bare between the two of them, was terrifying especially as the two of them had been working so hard to avoid the ‘things’ they mustn’t talk of.

So, no it wasn’t a threat is was an emotional suicide bomb and Sherlock would take them both out with the blast. All because John just couldn’t ask his husband to go to therapy with him.

Come on Watson! Speak up. Do it! Do it now!

“We need help, Sherlock.”

Sherlock recoiled a little as if the fact John had actually gone through with it had surprised him. He recovered quickly however, his face instantly back to its blank exterior. When Sherlock spoke again, his voice was completely (falsely) impassive. “Why?”

John took a deep breath, it was now or never. “You already know why. Don’t you?”

Sherlock’s overbearing silence was the closest John was going to get to confirmation, without outright asking and using the words.

“Mycroft was—he was right, Sherlock. No—don’t—don’t look at me like that. Even you know when to admit that, surely.”

Sherlock sniffed, his face turning towards the skull on the mantle. “He doesn’t _know_.”

John turned fully this time to look in the detectives ‘general’ direction without actually looking at him. “He knows enough.”

“Well… he **_will_** if we go to that—that woman. He’ll read the notes or accost her on the way to her car or plant cameras or devices in the office. You know what he’s like and he’ll…”

“He won’t” John shook his head.

If a person’s facial features could individually all look incredulous, all at one time, then Sherlock’s did just that. “What? What are you… what do you mean _he won’t_?”

John looked at the book case, he couldn’t look at Sherlock for too long these days and whether or not Sherlock was aware of it the feeling was obviously mutual. “I mean I don’t think he’ll spy on us in therapy. _This_ _time_ , at least.”

Sherlock snorted arching a brow in John’s ‘vague’ area. “And do tell me John. How are you so sure of that? Is it your special—?”

John cut him off before Sherlock could speak whatever sharp words that were on his tongue. “He knows what’s at stake for us. Mycroft’s doing that would be counterproductive to what he wants.”

Mycroft may have been many things but counterproductive was **not** one of them.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and this time he turned to watch John head on. John did **not** look up. “And what _does_ he want?”

The answer to that was easy, John didn’t even need to think about it. “Us together.”

Sherlock’s voice rasped unnaturally when he spoke again. “Y-you, you said you wouldn’t leave.”

John nodded. “I know. And I won’t, but just because neither of us will actually pack up and leave doesn’t mean that neither us won’t _leave_ in another sense.”

John felt it. The moment Sherlock bristled and the turned icier. “What ‘other sense’ do **you** mean?”

John looked down, his eyes dropping from the bookcase to the ground in submission. He knew where Sherlock’s mind had taken him. He couldn’t blame him. “You know…you know I didn’t mean… _that_.”

Sherlock spun around to face the kitchen and then began to pace agitatedly. John could feel the thunderous emotions flowing through Sherlock. “You—I—fine. What? What other sense? Hmm? What ‘ _other’ sense_ could there possibly be?” Sherlock was gesturing heavily with his hands. That was seldom a good sign of Sherlock’s mind state.

“We could go back… or—or should I say _continue_ on the way we’ve been these past few weeks. We could never talk. Never even look at one another because they’ll always be that great big ‘oh-no-we-mustn’t-talk-about-that’ blockade in the middle of us. We could finally leave one another in every other way other than physically. There’s a million ways to leave a bad situation Sherlock. There’s a million ways to be lonely.”

Sherlock whirled around his face somewhere between fierce and scared when John glanced at him. “Oh so you’re saying ‘we’ are a bad situation? Is _that_ what you’re saying?”

“Well...” John audibly heard it, as Sherlock’s breath stalled in his chest “…we’re not… _good_ , are we?”

“We’re…so what are you—are—are you saying you’re… _lonely_?” The previous rasp was back in Sherlock’s voice.

John didn’t answer he wasn’t sure how to answer but he assumed that Sherlock understood the dangerous undertones that lay beneath the silence.

“John?” John finally met Sherlock’s eye it was brief but the contact was made and John saw the brief flash of pain and hurt and instantaneously remembered why he couldn’t look at this man anymore.

“ _Please_.” John’s voice cracked slightly, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “Please, Sherlock let’s just ask for the number.”

Sherlock took an aborted step forward but paused. “Y-you truly believe it’s required? You truly believe we’re _that_ _bad_?”

Honesty was the best way to go. John took a deep steadying breath. Once again it was now or never.

Come on Watson.

“Yes.”

It was quick, simple and to the point. John felt Sherlock staring at him and from the corner of his eye saw how the detective nodded once and reached for his phone. He tapped quickly and then placed the phone rather _too_ quietly on the coffee table and then left towards the bathroom without another word.

John stood motionless watching Sherlock’s retreating back and began to feel awkward and exposed, standing alone in their chilly living room.

Not even 30 seconds later Sherlock’s phone vibrated. John picked it up, knowing Sherlock wouldn’t. John tapped the message to open it, as soon as he did he saw a date, time and mobile number and nothing else. John scrolled up to read the message Sherlock had sent to Mycroft to begin with.

The message was so simple and yet it was so heartbreakingly defeatist in its own way.

It simply read:

> **To: Mycroft Holmes**
> 
> Ok. SH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was that? Your thoughts mean so much to me so please let me know what you think.  
> Therapy chapters coming soon. Dun Dun Dunnn...


	6. The Appointment

The next few days were (expectedly) offbeat.

John and Sherlock shared next to no amount of time interacting with one another. John was only aware of Sherlock’s prolonged existence within the flat because of the disappearing plates of food that John had set aside for the detective and from what John could tell, Sherlock actually did appear to be eating them.

John had seen Sherlock approximately twice in the week leading up to ‘the appointment’ and both times were complete accidents, Sherlock having wrongly assumed John would either be asleep or at work. John _pretended_ not to notice the startled deer in headlights expression that had briefly presented itself on the detective’s face before he had feigned nonchalance and promptly vacated to the bathroom.

Although, of late the bathroom was no longer where he spent the majority of his time. It was simply an impromptu retreat he used when cornered, until he could make his **real** escape, to where ever it was he went nowadays.

John had no idea where Sherlock spent his time currently. He was pretty sure it wasn’t at Bart’s as Molly had texted him a few times, coyly asking about ‘things’ and surreptitiously enquiring about Sherlock. It wasn’t Lestrade’s because Sherlock liked to keep a healthy distance with him, something about ‘ _unnecessary bonds having no real basis in terms of ‘The Work’, John._ ’ (Which did sting a little if the Doctor was completely honest, because didn’t that also fit what they were?)

And well, like was previously stated; the bathroom of late had been predominantly lacking of the lanky detective, which could only mean he had obviously found a new ‘hiding’ spot.

In the end all John knew was that he woke up and Sherlock was gone; he went to sleep and Sherlock was gone. You didn’t need to be a consulting detective to realise said consulting detective was overtly avoiding something or rather _someone_.

John didn’t push it.

It hurt. But, John expected it.                                                                                                             

Honestly, not so deep down John believed he deserved it, so he just avoided trying to bring attention to it.

It was easy once you knew how.

***

The day of ‘the appointment’ John sat alone at the Kitchen table eating what was left of his breakfast, somewhat convinced Sherlock was most definitely not going to show. John wasn’t necessarily mad, just…well _not really_ that surprised.

Another thing that in no way surprised him, was the text he received pulling him out of his mental thoughts.

> **From: Mycroft Holmes**
> 
> Car outside.

John actually found himself more grateful than irritated at the elder Holmes’ ‘meddling’. It was familiar. It was…normal. It also saved John the taxi fare and to be honest the place was quite far. It was literally on the outskirts of London (the nice part, but still). John made his way to his coat checking he had his keys and wallet and left 221b. Subconsciously, John found himself slowing and delaying his pace in a blind hope that Sherlock would pop up out of somewhere and just… _be_ there.

His hopes though were in vain.

As they were, when John opened the car door wondering if Sherlock could possibly already be somewhere in there too.

He wasn’t.

And, so with one final look around the street John got in and tried not to think of what **all** these signs were screaming at him.

He failed.

***

The drive, was beautiful. The loudness of the city seemed to simply die away, the closer John got to the destination. John began to think to himself, that he could understand how people could almost forget what nature looked like. As odd as the thought was, it was an apt description of himself most of the time. The Doctor often found himself getting caught up in work or cases and Sherlock or ‘things’, John couldn’t remember the last time he just took note of the beauty around him and he was pretty sure the thought alone would seem pointless and trivial to Sherlock.

John started thinking that even if the upcoming session was terrible, useless and most likely _humiliating_ (because, I mean who turns up to couples therapy alone?) the drive alone could _perhaps_ make it worth it.

**Perhaps.**

***

If the drive up had been beautiful, then the actual building itself was, stunning. John had actually paused for ten minutes alone just staring at the astonishing exterior. It was huge, yet, strangely quite quaint. It had pink and white orchids lining the pathway and vines that had bright purple shoots in them twining around the building.

The building itself was shielded with white and grey stones. There were two glossy black, heavyweight doors with the sign that hung above them that read ‘Old Palmers House’. As John surveyed the area around him, he took in the long stretching gardens that appeared to have nearly every well-known flower (at least to him) possible. There were roses, orchids, Lillie’s, bluebells, chrysanthemums’ and some others that he absolutely had no idea what they were called, although he could make out that they were next to a distant patch of sunflowers.

John had to consciously stop himself from wondering just how much all this was costing, because well…if this was just the outside, he couldn’t even begin to imagine the ‘in’.

***

Steeling himself, John pushed the gold bell on the door and had to hold in a surprised breath when the door opened immediately thanks to a concierge who looked as if he were a part of the military.

John instinctively stood a little straighter.

“Good morning, Sir.”

“Erm hi—no sorry. Good morning. Yes, good morning. I’m here for—”

“Of course sir. If you would allow me to lead you to the reception desk.”

“Ok. That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

The concierge nodded once and turned on his heel, “of course, Sir.”

John followed, trying his hardest not to appear as uncomfortable as he felt. ‘Swanky’ had never exactly been his forte even with all the years he’d spent around the Holmes’. He was working class, through and through. Which, John actually liked about himself especially when he saw how out of touch sometimes Sherlock and Mycroft could be, which always confused John since their parents were so disarmingly… _normal_.

His thoughts were cut off though, when they reached the reception hall (yes, that’s right… **hall** ) quite quickly.

“Here you are, Sir.”

“Thanks.”

“Of course, Sir.”

John wasn’t sure if he was supposed to tip or not but as soon as the thought had even occurred the aged gentleman was gone. Assumingly, back to his post by the door. John’s eyes surveyed the extensive, exquisitely decorated hall and he startled a little when then receptionist began speaking to him.

“Good morning, Sir. How can I help you today?” The cheery voice chimed.

“Oh, sorry. I got a little bit distracted. It’s quite the place you’ve got here.”

“It is. The history is quite breath-taking. If you require I should be able to arrange a tour of the grounds for you.”

“I…that sounds great, but I don’t know when my…appointment will end so perhaps not today. Thank you, though.”

“Not a problem, sir—”

“Please, call me John. I feel a little out of place with all that ‘sir’ business.”

“Ok. Not a problem, _John_ …better?”

Despite himself John snorted softly. “Much. Thank you.”

The receptionist smiled an easy smile. “Who are you here for today, John?”

John had to fumble within his pocket to look at the name he’d scribbled down. “Erm, Alex Morrison. For the 11 o’clock appointment. Under the name Watson-Holmes.”

“Oh, Alex is wonderful. Helped me and my husband beautifully, absolute miracle worker. Everyone just loves— _Oh_ —I’m—I’m sorry. That was…inappropriate.” The receptionist flushed mildly as if she had just caused some great offense, John tapped her arm gently to reassure her it was fine.

“Not at all. Honestly, that’s just what I needed to hear.” John smiled and it was to his surprise actually genuine. If this Alex was continually hailed as a ‘miracle worker’ there had to be something in it. _Right_?

“I know, it can be…daunting. But, I promise you it’s worth it.”

“I hope so.”

“Trust me." John believed her, for reasons he couldn't quite fathom. And, simply listened as she continued speaking. "So, you’ll be with in the ‘Hudson wing’ which is just down this corridor to the right. Would you like a guide to help you?”

“Oh no. I think I’ll be fine. Besides, I want to be able to make a clean getaway, should I wish to chicken out.”

It was the receptionist snorted this time, but she caught herself quickly hiding it behind a cough, she then put on a feigned serious expression for when she spoke again. “Well, should you so need to, Sir, exits can be found here, here and here.” She flailed her arms gently around in a way that resembled an air hostess.

John chuckled and then mock admonished. “ _John_ , remember?”

“Of course. _John_. I’m Mina.”

“Nice to meet you, _Mina_.”

Mina smiled and once again without thinking about it John smiled back. “If you should need a diversion to make your smooth _getaway_ …find **someone else** , because _I_ need my job.”

And that was so unexpected John couldn’t helped but laugh. Actually, genuinely, fully laugh. The first laugh he’d shared with anyone that hadn’t been feigned or faked in what felt like months.

It felt…nice.

It wasn’t even that it had been _that_ funny, it was just such a nice change from the pent up anxiety, that these days constantly seemed to be within him.

Mina giggled too. She obviously understood how overwhelming coming here could be, after all she’d gone through the process as well.

John spoke in between his snorts of laughter. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

Mina nodded and smiled warmly. “Have a good session, John.”

John turned, and immediately he saw a sight that made his laughter die in his throat and smile fade and drop from his face instantly.

Sherlock.

Or rather, Sherlock with a look of _poorly_ suppressed anger. The look, like most of Sherlock’s facial expressions was replaced with a bland façade as soon as John registered it.

“You, came?” John hadn’t meant it to come out sounding like a shocked question. But, John was in fact quite surprised the detective had turned up at all.

Sherlock glanced behind John so quickly John missed it. “Was I not supposed to?” Was the bitten out reply that came.

“No, no. that’s—that’s not what I meant. I—I just didn’t think…”

“Mmm.”

“Was it Mycroft?” Instantly John knew that was the wrong question to ask. Sherlock simply looked over John’s shoulder, his eyes cold and annoyed. John believed this was so, Sherlock didn’t have to look at him.

John was **wrong**.

“Where are we supposed to be?” Sherlock drawled not removing his eyes from over John’s shoulder.

“Hudson wing.”

“Very well. Shall we?”

John swallowed his unease, mumbled out an “alright” and led the way. The walk was awkward and painfully silent. John breathed a sigh of relief when they reached the office of one ‘Alex Morrison, miracle worker’ it didn’t say the last bit on the door but it flowed through John’s mind like a blessed mantra. John knocked and when the door opened both John and Sherlock took in a unified breath.

***

“Hello. I’m Alex. Please come in.”

The resemblance was uncanny. The long blond hair, petite round face, sharpened green eyes.

John hoped Sherlock hadn’t noticed. It was a blind hope. Sherlock saw everything.

 _Everything_.

Of course he did. He **always** saw and took in everything, sometimes before John could even blink. There’s no way he missed the fact that she looked exactly like…

“Are you--?” Alex began only to be interrupted by Sherlock speaking at the same time.

“You’re a—” Sherlock started as Alex raised her eyebrow “—woman.”

And John was as puzzled as Alex, because he was sure that they both knew she was going to be well...a _she_. Mycroft had clearly said 'lady'.

Odd. 

“Yes?” She looked puzzled for a moment, before she clicked what he meant. “Oh. Yes, yes of course you saw Alex and thought I’d be a man. Common mistake, but no, sorry Alex is short for Alexandra. Hello again! It won’t be a problem will it?”

John and Sherlock spoke at the same time. “No.” Said John. “Not for _me_.” Said Sherlock. John didn’t miss the little ‘too much’ emphasis on the ‘me’ part of the statement but he chose to ignore it. He was still hoping Sherlock hadn’t noticed who she looked like.

“Wonderful. Please come inside.”

Both followed her into her office taking the pre-offered side by side chairs as she took her seat across from them.

The silence felt like it lasted forever.

Alex broke it first. “Ok. So, shall we begin?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was tricky. It's a bit of a transitional one and those are always tricky for me.  
> Not completely sure about this one, but let me know what you think.


	7. The Introduction Of Conflict.

The small room was silent for what felt like a **very** long time. Evidently, _too long_ because it soon appeared to dawn on Alex as well as the two men within the room, that the stagnant silence would remain indefinitely if Alex was not the one to initially break it.

Alex, shifted comfortably within her seat, brushing a blonde strand behind her ear. A motion, which she noted seemed to make both the detective and the doctor shift almost imperceptively closer toward one another. As if the feminine act was some sort of unspoken threat. Neither, of the men even looked to be consciously aware of the fact they were even doing it.

Alex, filed that particular material of information away. For later analysis.

“So, what brings you two here today?” Alex’s face was relaxed into a pleasant and for want of a better word _placid_ expression, as she sat waiting for an unforthcoming response.

The two obviously ill-at-ease men before her made no moves to provide an answer to the query. The younger man, from Alex’s current point-of-view appeared to look as if he wished to be anywhere else other than where he presently resided. The slightly older man’s expression was not too dissimilar except his eyes darted sheepishly and his mouth opened and closed repeatedly as if he was trying, but was physically unable to actually provide any reply.

***

John, was warring within himself. Need and want, were contending for possession of his actions as well as his instincts. What John **needed** was to answer the question with as much honesty as he possibly could. What John _wanted_ however, was to never ever, **ever** answer that question.

Nevertheless, despite that instinct to cowardly back out of what he knew could help them, John fought it. Hard. He _really_ did. But, even willingly the doctor couldn’t quite find the verses to respond to the enquiry. Since, for some reason all thoughts and words had simply abandoned him. Leaving him flailing in an ocean of confusion and discomfort. A quick edgy glance towards Sherlock, told the doctor that despite his epic poker face, the detective was not much better off.

***

Alex eyed John closely apparently reading his inner turmoil outwardly, and her eyes soften slightly more. Instantly, she realised a different approach was necessary.

“Okay then, let’s try this. Would you say that your relationship was problematic?”

Alex received no verbalized retort, but she did take note of the way both men were fiercely trying to keep their faces perfectly neutral.

“Alright, perhaps a different question. Would you say you’re…happy?”

Once again, she received nothing more, but the blank-faced wall of silence **.**

But, their resolute silence was telling the blonde more than the two before her could possibly be aware of.                                                                                                                                            

Alex sighed softly.

“I understand how hard it can be. I do. Honestly. It can be so overwhelming trying to decide how to let a complete stranger into your life. Your, _private_ life at that. I do understand that. However, I can only do so much to aid your recovery as a couple without adequate communication on your part. We need to be in this together or we might as well all go home.”

***

That stirred something within John, to finally find a response.

“It…” However, that was as far as John got before his words seized up on him again. Alex, made way to offer some assistance.

“ _John_? Correct?”

John nodded once.

“What was it you were going to say, John?”

John felt Sherlock turn to look at him with questioning eyes, but John kept his on Alex.

“It…it feels like a… _trick_.”

Alex’s brows creased in confusion. “What does?”

“The—those questions. They feel like a trick.”

Alex ‘hmmed’ at this, appearing to be actually considering the doctor’s perception. “How so?”

John struggled to find his words for a moment. “There’s no right way to answer them. Answering them will bring…trouble.” The doctor breathed in a shallow breath and then hastened to add a meek “ _For either side_.” At the end.                                  

“Why?” Alex challenged.

“Because…it—there are things that don’t need to be said.”

The blonde’s gaze sharpened minutely. “Why?”

John, breathed in deeply. His prior aversion towards therapy was quickly making itself re-known. Simply put, John was beginning to feel _mildly_ frustrated with where this ‘conversation’ was heading.

“Because questions like those only bring conflict to a situation!”

Nodding once, Alex tilted her head and asked. “And, what’s wrong with that?”

Taken aback by the question, John watched the woman before him. “Excuse me?”

“What’s wrong with the introduction of conflict?”

Alex’s reply was put forward smoothly and John could only sit gaping at the woman in front of him. Belatedly, realizing Sherlock was _finally_ cutting in.

“Oh for goodness sake. I told you this was a waste of time.” Sherlock promptly stood up and stalked towards the door. “John, let’s go home. Clearly this woman is a _quack_. ‘ _What’s wrong with the introduction of conflict?_ ’ Indeed. The very idea that you find the need to ask such an inane question, tells me we’re in the wrong place.” Sherlock growled out his words at Alex in the upmost disgust and for once John didn’t necessarily disagree with him. (At least at present).

Tilting her scrutiny towards Sherlock’s direction, Alex focused her attentions. “You’re very angry Sherlock.”

Her words were calm and professional but Sherlock’s face stuttered for a second all the same.

Sherlock sniffed scornfully, but dropped his gaze from her as if… _hiding?_ Or at the very least stepping back from that particular line of inquisition. “John, let’s go home.”

John stood as Sherlock flounced even closer towards the door handle, his hand barely clasping it. John had hardly had a chance to move, before Alex initiated speaking calmly once more.

“Just so you know. There is nothing wrong with the introduction of conflict. Do you know why? No? Okay, I’ll tell you. There is **nothing** wrong with the introduction of conflict because without conflict you can never find resolution. And resolution brings us peace. Do either of you have that?” Her eyes were purely analytical as she continued to speak. “Do either of you have any peace? _Any at all_?”

The room was frozen. Stuck in a moment of tense muteness, save from Alex’s unrelenting eyes roving over the two men within her office. Sherlock’s hand was stuck fast on the door handle head bowed slightly. John, resembled a similar pose except his hands were clasped in front of him. His fingers, playing with the cuffs of his jacket.

Alex pushed on. “I am very good at what I do. I’m not going to coddle you. I’m simply going to lay out the facts. You need my help. If you didn’t quite frankly you wouldn’t be here. I know who both of you are. I’ve read your blog John. Sherlock, I know about your deductive skills and I am more than aware you will try to startle or throw me off my game by spouting some _magnificent_ and more likely hurtful deduction my way. And just so you know, I’m ready for that. I’m ready for _you_. I’m not scared of you. **Either** , of you. You’re a challenge, yes, but I excel at those. So, you can be damn sure I’m capable of handling anything either of you have to throw at me. But, if you want to leave by all means do so. While I do enjoy a good puzzle, I much prefer clients who actually **want** my help anyway. If you think you can fix whatever is going on between you by yourselves, by all means open the door and go. However, if that is not the case…then how about you just… _give me a chance_?”

The room was uneasy for about ten seconds more, until John unclasped his hands and moved to sit back down in his chair. Another ten seconds passed as Sherlock’s hand on the door handle slowly subsided, though he flatly refused to turn around.

Alex, nodded softly in acknowledgement as she watched Sherlock’s hand sink into his coat pockets.

Alex looked down self-deprecatingly at her notes as she shed fully, the forceful veil she had worn previously.

“Like I said. I’m **very** good at what I do.”

***

“Now, shall we start again?” **Nothing.** “Okay, well I’ll take your silence for acquiescence.”

Alex tapped idly at her notepad with her pen, eyes glancing between the detective and the doctor.

“I’m going to go grassroots with you two, because I can tell you’re not going to be forthcoming on you own. That’s not an insult, a lot of people are like that. Like I said before, it can be hard to let a perfect stranger into you privacy like that. But, trust and complete honesty is going to be a necessity. Alright?”

John nodded morosely and Sherlock didn’t actually move but the fact he was silent was agreement enough.

“Okay good. So, if you had to give one reason as to why you’re here today. What would it be?”

After several moments of static silence, John spoke. “We—I—there are issues.” He finished weakly.

“Okay. And what do you believe those issues to be?”

Silence overtook the room again.

“Alright. _Grassroots_. Okay, so I’m going to feed you some buzz words and maybe a few questions here and there and **both** of you are going to provides answers from your own point of view or the first words that come to mind. John, you’ll be the one to start off each time alright?”

John nodded. “Alright.”

“Sherlock?”

There was no reply but Alex continued on anyway. “Okay, so **‘ _trust_ ’**?

John's voice was but a whisper. “Broken.”

Twelve seconds passed and neither Alex nor John thought Sherlock was going to participate until an eventual gravelled response came forth. “Impaired.”

Alex, tried not to sink into the upsurge of relief that poured out of her and John and flooded the room. She could tell that even _that_ small amount of participation was a large concession from the proud man before her. Revelling, would not be favourable to Sherlock at present. “Okay good. Why?”

John, shifted restlessly and then let out a slow breath. “Me.”

Once again, there was a pause but the response came quicker this time. Sherlock followed suit. “John.”

Alex spoke again. “What happened?”

John paused collecting his words. “Stupidity.”

Sherlock’s voice was quieter when he spoke again. “Betrayal.”

Alex scribbled their responses down. “Alright. **_‘Divorce’_**?”

John’s eyes met Alex’s. A bold, unbreakable glare briefly taking the place of the uncomfortable, sad one. “Never.”

Sherlock’s voice also came out strong and in a defiant growl. “Repugnant.”

Alex inhaled deeply and thought of what she wanted to know and what each of them right now needed to hear. “Okay. Final one for today. **_‘Marriage’_**?”

John’s mouth turned up slightly in the corners. “Everything.”

Sherlock’s replied with a murmur both other inhabitants within the room had to strain to hear. “Forever.”

“Okay…that’s, that’s a good start. I suggest ending here. It’s always best to ease into treatments like these. If we feel we’re giving away too much too soon, we shut ourselves down. Self-preservation can at times be rehabilitations biggest Achilles heel. So, let’s call it a day. I’m going to book you in for two days from now. So, that’ll be Wednesday…is that alright?”

“How many times a week will we be seeing you?” John asked, not quite keeping the tight inflection out of his voice.

“I’m recommending an intensive package for you both. So it’ll be three times a week at present it will fluctuate depending on where I feel you are. However, I will say. Any, cancelations or less than a hundred percent commitment from either of you and I’ll cancel you bookings with me all together. I only help people who wish to help themselves. Do we have an agreement?”

John nodded obediently and muttered a “yes, of course.”

Sherlock however remained stubbornly silence.

“ _Please_ … _Sherlock?_ ” John’s voice was unobtrusive in volume, but the detective had obviously heard it perfectly. As the, hard unyielding lines of rigidity in the younger man’s shoulders softened marginally at the tone.

The silence continued for four seconds more. Before, eventually Sherlock blew out a frustrated “fine” into the broad direction of the room.

Alex however accepted the begrudging acceptance gladly. “Good. That’s very good. I’ll see you Wednesday then.”

John stood to leave, but Sherlock was already out of the door without even a secondary glance backwards.

A tired sigh left the blonde woman’s lips.

These two Alex thought to herself, were going to be a difficult case, a very difficult case in indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The point of view in this chapter alternated a little bit more than usual, I hoped it worked alright. Sorry for any errors.  
> I hope you enjoyed!


	8. No fire. No fight.

 

“Sherlock, slow down.”

John’s voice echoed down the long hallway, and Sherlock’s pace picked up half a step faster.

Sherlock couldn’t slow down.

Sherlock was barely able to breathe anything other than fire as this point. Slowing down was definitely **not** an option. If Sherlock slowed down he’d say things.

**Bad things.**

Things that would make John hurt. And hurting John was bad because hurting John meant hurting Sherlock and hurting Sherlock was nothing compared to the feeling of hurting John and…

**‘Oh God!’**

Sherlock’s brain was aching with the twists, turns and continuous circles it was roving in.

_‘Old Palmers House’._ Sherlock’s mind condemned bitterly.

To Sherlock, the place was detestable. It was so bright and sunny on the outside but so maddeningly claustrophobic and tumultuous within. How were people supposed to stand it? These vicious raging emotions that had the capability to spin so far out of one’s control. Their very sanity was at risk.

_'Hateful. Hateful place.'_

And, now he was supposed to _return_ here. Return, here practically every three days. **Every three days**?

It had to be some sick Joke.

It was madness.

Why was he doing this? Talking and feeling and **more** talking and **more** feeling. Why was he doing this? What was the point? Why?

_Why?_

**Why?**

A primal, growl of frustration broke free from the detective’s chest.

The crux of the issue, was that asking the question itself was pointless. Sherlock knew the answer. The answer was simple and precious and loving and… _John_.

John, who thought this hell hole was necessary. John, who Sherlock himself had watched slowly splintering apart; day in, day out for the past however many weeks. John, who thinks they’ll fall apart if they don’t reach for the help.

The help bloody **Mycroft** offered.

John, who today laughed. _Really_ , laughed with someone who wasn’t Sherlock. Someone who Sherlock could never be.

A pretty brunette. A pretty, funny brunette. A pretty, funny, kind brunette. A pretty, funny, kind, **female** brunette.

Because... **that** was what it came down to, wasn’t it? That was what it always came down to. _Them_. The women. The female populace. They were to forever be Sherlock’s pressure point or rather John’s pressure point which by-proxy made them Sherlock’s.

_'HATEFUL. HATEFUL PLACE!'_

***

“Sherlock. Please, just wait up will you.”

Thoughts rang angrily through Sherlock's clashing mind.

_‘Dammit John! Don’t you see I’m doing this for you? Doing, this to protect you. Don’t make me speak now. You won’t like it. I’ll hurt you! DO. NOT. MAKE. ME. SPEAK!’_

“Sherlock, _please_.”

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks and then whirled around with all the righteous anger he was trying to hold back, breaking it's floodgates.

“WHAT?” Sherlock roared. 

John, took an uncoordinated step backwards. Sherlock, ached at the sight but it was too late, his temper had the better of him now. “WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT? WHAT MORE CAN YOU POSSIBLY WANT FROM ME? HAVEN’T I GIVEN ENOUGH? **AM I NOT DOING ENOUGH?** "

John’s eyes were saucers but Sherlock just couldn’t hold back any longer. “You always need more don’t you? Always need to take that little bit extra. Why, are you so _dense_? I clearly didn’t want to talk, _did I_? But, like always you say jump and I’m just supposed to leap. I suppose I'm basically like some rabid dog. I suppose that makes you...what? My simplistic owner? Yes? Is that what you believe? Hm? I already know you and everybody else believes you to be my handler. My controller. **You,** my helpful moral guidance? My _diligent_ moral compass as it were. How hard it must be being the  _nice_ one. The _understanding_ one. The one everyone believes is _perfect. Oh, if they only knew._  If they only knew what nice, understanding, perfect little John were capable of." Sherlock closed his eyes as a sneer played on his face.

"If only they knew how easily your head can be turned. If only they _knew_ the idiocy you're capable of when presented with a pretty face. If only they could see you like I can."

The detective turned and pulled at his curls. He scoffed when he began speaking again. "Show you a pretty face and watch you dance. I can’t blame you totally I’m obviously a bit of a dunce myself. Well, quite frankly the biggest mistake I ever made was acquiring a flat share. If there was ever a sign I have the capacity of complete idiocy then it was that. My greatest singular miscalculation, _right there_." Sherlock, dropped his hands from his curls and stalked away from John only to round on him, just as quickly. "I’M LEAVING! DO. NOT. FOLLOW. ME! Am I making myself clear? **AM.I**?”

John’s face did things that Sherlock had never seen them do before. Everything within Sherlock wanted to cram the odious words back into his mouth so fast that he’d choke on them. But, it was too late the damage was undeniably done.

No going back.

John’s voice when he spoke didn’t even sound like it belonged to him. It was a tone Sherlock had only ever heard once before.

**At the Landmark Hotel.**

Oh.

No.

Bad.

“Alright. I’m sorry. You're right, I should have left you alone. I just wanted to make sure you were… _I’m sorry_.”

 

***

Sherlock, wanted to peel his own skin off. 

He, felt so itchy in it now.

He, wanted to cause harm. He wanted to cause harm to **everyone**.

He wanted to cause harm to himself.

He, wanted to cause harm to... _John_.

Because, John was making him feel like a cretin. Like, the freak Donovan so often accuses him of being. John, being nice right now is worse than anything else John has ever done.

Because now, Sherlock knows. Now, Sherlock comprehends just how broken they are. Because, if John has nothing to say apart from an apology after what _Sherlock_ had just spat at _him_. They obviously needed this hateful place more than Sherlock _ever_  understood.

There’s no anger in John, Sherlock realised.

**No fire. No fight.**

How does the victim become the perpetrator and the perpetrator the victim?

Sherlock has no idea and the one man in the world who could even start to help the detective understand, refused to walk on anything other than eggshells around him now.

Maybe Sherlock belonged here after all.

A hateful man condemned to attend a hateful place. _Fitting_ really.

***

John should have known better. It was all there. All the evidence that screamed, stop! No! Leave it! Stop! Danger! But, he’d ignored all of them. He knows. Knows, what Sherlock’s like when he’s scared, hurt or cornered. The detective seldom deals well with emotions or feelings or talking or any of the things he’d just been forced to part take in. and John should have left him alone.

The words that had been practically hissed at him, had hurt. He’d be lying if he said they hadn’t. They always did. Always had. But, it wasn’t the words John was hurt by necessarily. Yes, those hadn’t been fun to hear but in truth Sherlock had said worse. It was the thought that maybe the words were coming from somewhere other than anger. It was the thought that those words were hidden in a darken corner of Sherlock’s psyche.

_Does Sherlock really have thoughts like those?_

Did he really think all John did was want things from him?

Did he think he was controlled by John? Owned?

Regardless of what others may have thought. John was not blind to Sherlock’s emotional allergies. He understood that his part within Sherlock life was an anomaly within itself. Sherlock, in general didn’t care. It wasn’t that he couldn’t. Time and time again he had shown a great capacity for sentiment more often than not towards Mrs Hudson, his parents or at times Lestrade… and even rarer Mycroft.

Yes, Sherlock had the capacity, he was just unwilling to actively participate within it.

To Sherlock caring was not an advantage. He’d said so, so many times John knew the moto off by heart. Caring didn’t help Sherlock, and quite honestly in truth Sherlock was right. It wasn’t an advantage, at least not for him. Emotions hindered Sherlock, they clouded his judgement, they made him unpredictable and at times they flat out floored him.

Like was said before. John was an anomaly. Sherlock had known the risks of sentiment on himself and he had taken the gambol anyway. For John. It was always, all for John.

Maybe, Sherlock’s subconscious was right. Maybe, John did want too much, maybe he took too much. And, maybe just maybe Sherlock was buckling under the pressure of it all.

***

John hadn’t realised he was standing in an empty corridor until he was thrown out of his thoughts by chirpy voice.

“You alright there John?”

John turned around to see Mina standing close behind him coat and bag in her hand, smiling curiously at him.

“Yeah. Yeah, no sorry. Didn’t realise I was blocking the whole corridor.”

“Don’t be silly. I could have gone around you, I just—you looked a little lost.”

“Oh no, no I know my way out.” John’s false smile didn’t take and John thought he saw the knowledge of that dawn of Mina’s face.

“That wasn’t exactly what I meant, but let’s pretend it was.”

John’s eyes rested on her bag and coat again, hoping she wouldn’t delve deeper.

“You off home then?” John asked nodding at the bundle in her arms in a blatant attempt to divert the subject.

Mina smiled knowingly, but went along with it. “Yes, thank goodness. I’m normally in until a bit later but I’m on half days all week party planning and organising.”

“Anything nice?”

“Yeah, hubby’s birthday.” Mina glowed with happiness at the very thought of him. John was unsure why but smiled a small smile along with her too.

“Oh, well that’s nice.”

“Mm. He normally always guesses his surprises but I’m ahead of him this time. I’m very determined.”

“I can see.” John smiled.

“So, you heading out or…” Mina trailed off blatantly not saying _‘…or are you just going to stand here in the corridor like a weirdo._ ’

“Yeah, I’m heading out.”

Mina looked at John for a long moment, obviously seeing something John wasn’t hiding well and glanced down at her watch. “Hmm. You know, I actually just realised I’m a little ahead of schedule. What do you say to that tour of the gardens? I can’t really fit in the whole grounds, I’m not _that_ ahead of myself.”

John understood perfectly what she was doing and he was going to tell her it was really nice of her but she really didn’t have to, however John was stopped before he could verbalize it.

“Don’t say no. Just say yes. I haven’t got all day you know.” Mina winked and John chuckled despite himself and nodded, following her wordlessly down the corridor.

***

Once they were outside John lifted his face to the sky, basking in the feeling of the sun.

“So how was your session?”

John smiled ruefully. “I have a feeling you already know.”

“Hmm, ‘know’ is a strong word. It was more of an… intuition.”

“Hmm, _intuition_.” The word slide out of John’s mouth like revelation.

“Yeah, hubby thinks I’m psychic. Really, I’m just fluent in the language of ‘boys’. I’ve got five brothers and two sons, I’m well practiced.”

“Wow.”

“Hmm. So, what happened?”

“Alex, is very…forthright.”

“Yes, yes she can be. Did you get on her bad side?”

“No. no, I don’t think so. It’s…I think she just realised we’re not exactly…enthusiastic about _feelings_.”

“But, isn’t that why you came? To learn how to do those things?”

“Maybe. In a way. There were other…things too. I think they were the main…purpose of our visit.”

“’things?’’

John shift uncomfortably for a moment.”

“Sorry, look if you don’t want to talk about it its fine. I shouldn’t pry, hazards of the job. Sorry.”

“Hazards? I thought—sorry I just…I thought you were the receptionist.”

“Some days. Others, I’m a sit-in. Others, I’m a tour guide. I’m an apprentice. Third year Psychology student. It’s alright, I know I’m a bit of a mature one. It was actually coming here that made me realise I had such a passion for it.”

“Yeah? You said Alex was a miracle worker.”

“She is. At least to me. Saved me and mine. Divorce was only this far off the landscape before we came here.”  Mina held thumb and forefinger a small width apart to further make her point.

“Really?”

“Yeah. _Really_.” Mina smiled. “Love was never the issue though. Not for us. For us, it was…verbalising it. Showing it in the right ways. We were so bad at that bit. We’d never seen it. His mum and dad were married for 45 years and hated one another. My mum and dad divorced before I turned 12, three days before to be precise. We got married when he was 22 and I was 20, by the time I was 25 we had two small children and beginnings of a fully-fledged mortgage. We done it all by the book. We thought were fine. We were together, we weren’t divorced, we didn’t shout at each other day in day out. You know? So what if we’d sit in silence, so what we **chose** to work late, so what if we forgot an anniversary here or there. We were fine. We didn’t see how bad we were until our daughter asked us during dinner, why we were still together, if we hated one another.” Mina glanced mournfully across the courtyard, her eyes taking on a glossy glaze. “Sad thing was that neither of us had an answer for her. That’s when we got researching and found here.”

“That’s…that’s quite the story.”

“You should see the film.” Mina wryly smiled.

“How olds your daughter?”

“Now, nine. Then, then she was six.”

“ _Good grief_.”

“Hm. It was **not** a fun Christmas dinner.”

John burst out laughing and Mina soon followed suit, breaking the sobriety of the moment.

“So? I told you mine.”

“I thought you were showing me the flowers?”

Mina didn’t even blink, lifting a hand over her head, forefinger pointed over her head, as she began rapid fire plant labelling.

“Sunflower patch, Rose patch (Red, white and pink), Lily patch. Tulips, Chrysanthemum sprays can be found along the lining of the Bonsai trees, Dahlia’s are patched to the far back. As are the Delphiniums, Gerberas and Scottish Heathers. These patches down here are your basic Pear Blossoms, Peonies, Bluebells and Waxflowers. The wild vines on the front, sides and rear of the building were uniquely impregnated with purple Anemones. The range of Orchids over there are all specially European bred apart from the Dendrobiums, they were shipped from Singapore.” Mina rested her hand back over her coat and quirked an eyebrow.

“That was impressive.”

“Thank you. Now, your turn.”

John sighed but after that he had no other out. And honestly saying the words aloud felt like a siren’s call he just didn’t want to resist anymore. “Alright, okay. Alright. I suppose, I should start from the…start then.”

“Might be best. Let’s go sit on the bench.”

John followed. Taking a seat while wringing his hands together. “Okay, well…there was this woman.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so sorry for the lateness of this one. I've just moved into my dorm room so, I just got completely overwhelmed time wise. But, to make up for it I made this chapter a little longer. :) Okay, so please like always excuse any errors.
> 
> This chapter is a bit of a transitional one again, I'm not really completely happy with it but I very rarely am so... I'll leave you to judge. 
> 
> Feedback, as always is always welcomed.
> 
> Enjoy x


	9. In A Caustic Woodland

Two days. Two days of both John and Sherlock avoiding each other like the plague. John avoided Sherlock because he didn't want Sherlock to feel crowded or _controlled_ and Sherlock avoided John because he was too scared to see what hurt lay within John’s eyes. He also was convinced John wouldn't want him around anyway.

Wednesday, came simultaneously both too fast and not fast enough. Even Sherlock, was anxious to get back to ‘Old Palmers’ again. Not, to see Alex or even to talk particularly, but, more to listen. ‘Old Palmers’ was now the only way _Sherlock_ _believed_ he could hear John speak openly, since Sherlock asking for information and John offering it, were simply not viable options.

John had felt like a weight had been lifted off of him after he’d arrived home from speaking with Mina. Nothing much had happened. John had spoken and Mina had just listened. She hadn't said anything. It had been nice, freeing really.

When Wednesday had come around John had woken up and gone about his daily routine, he didn't even bother to look to see if Sherlock was within the flat; fully certain he probably wouldn't be which was why he almost dropped the kettle when Sherlock had spoken to him out of nowhere.

“There’s some tea on the side.”

“Jesu—Sherlock? What? Why are you…?”

“On the side, John. Tea.”

“Yeah, I heard you. You—you just scared me.”

“Why? Is today not ‘talking day’.”

“ _Talking day?_ Oh right— _the session_. Yeah, yeah it’s today. I just didn't think…”

“What? That I’d turn up? I turned up Monday, didn't I? I'm not a complete—”

“—no, no that’s not—I…it’s just that you’re never here when I wake up so I just—” John sighed in a defeated tone that reminded Sherlock of why he’d been in hiding for the past two days. “It was just unexpected is all.”

John took the steaming cup on the side and sat at the table staring at it when he wasn't taking sips, the atmosphere was stiflingly tense.

Sherlock cleared his throat. Perhaps he should try this again. “I thought, perhaps we could go together. Isn't that the normal…procedure for these…arrangements?”

“Together? You want to go with… _me_?”

“No, I thought I’d go with Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock snapped before he clamped his mouth shut, biting off the rest of the sarcastic retort he was spiralling into. This was not his area. Apologising, making amends were all a bit… _cloying_ for his taste. They always rubbed him the wrong way partly because ‘being wrong’ was unbearable for a man so used to always being right.

But no, he owed John this peace offering.

But, John’s mental tardiness was putting a significant strain on the already tenuous olive branch, Sherlock was trying to hold up.

“I mean…” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Yes, of course with you. Me and you together. If you want to that is.”

“Yes.” John said a little too quickly and Sherlock smiled slightly at that. It appeared the olive brand had been accepted.

“Good. That’s… good. Drink your tea. Mycroft’s car should be here soon.”                                         

“Right.”

***

The car ride for want of a better word was…awkward, made even more so by the fact both occupants were pretending it wasn't in fact…awkward at all. In the beginning no actual effort was made for any conversation to be held, but pleasantry glances were exchanged and accepted every now and again even though they were obviously a little strained.

John for the main part gazed out of the window at the passing scenery. Sherlock for his part simply gazed at John, dropping his gaze to his phone whenever John glanced back at him.

Silence reigned supreme, which was why John flinched slightly when Sherlock spoke out of nowhere.

“You like it.” There was no question in Sherlock’s words so John frowned and he turned around to watch the detective for more to go on.

“Like what?”

“The view. Your shoulders and spine have relaxed in steadying increments the further into the countryside we've driven.”

Almost immediately Sherlock realised his error in pointing out John’s lack of tension as in mentioning it, it had appeared to have re-emerged in full force, and then some. 

“It wasn't a criticism, John. I-I simply noticed. I didn't mean to…” Sherlock’s words died out into a sigh.

“It’s fine. Yeah, yeah I like the view. I find the drive here…calming. I know it’s probably not like that for you though.” John shrugged turning back towards the window, tension still rigid in his upper shoulders.

“I am capable of acknowledging beauty. I'm not so blinded by my own superiority, that I cannot see the same beauty you do!”

Sherlock’s tone was defensive in a way he hadn't meant to convey. John evidently heard it. Of course he did. It would have been impossible for anyone miss the sharpened lilt to the words, especially John who was so fluent in the subtleties of Sherlock.

John turned slightly, not quite enough that he wasn't facing the window, but enough that Sherlock to see the tired incline of the doctors features.

“That wasn't…I didn't mean it like that. It’s just…you don’t like…never mind. I'm sorry.”

“Your apologies, are becoming increasingly tiresome!” The words were harsh even to the detective’s ears but the doctor barely reacted at all.

“I’ll try to stop then,” The words weren't sarcastic or even laced with any severe undertone. In fact, John sounded as calm and placating as always, which only served to rile Sherlock up that little bit more.

The next words out of the consulting detective’s mouth were cruel and unnecessary, and later when he would think back on them, he would feel a shame that would burn through him like fire in a caustic woodland.

“If I wanted a spineless, obedient spouse I would have married Molly Hooper! Is this all I have to look forward to now? Hmm? ‘ _Yes, Sherlock! No, Sherlock! Anything you say Sherlock.’_ Good lord how tedious! Where’s Moriarty when you need him? I’ll be sure to be in need of a good puzzle if this is all I have to look forward to. Perhaps, Mycroft can try and find ‘The Woman’ for me, did I ever tell you she wasn't really dead? Saved her myself, now there was some exhilaration. She was at least interesting—”

“Stop. Please, just…stop it.” John’s words were soft and gasped out brokenly. Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut immediately. He hadn't meant to go that far, he hadn't meant to say any of it. He didn't even mean any of it. Molly Hooper is one the strongest women he’s ever known, what he had burdened on to her before his 'fall' and after, was more than anyone could of reasonably been expected to of held on to, especially in the face of John’s grief, the guilt of that alone would have broken most. And, Moriarty? God, Moriarty he loathed, granted he had been a hell of a puzzle – but after what he had almost cost him, he was one he never wanted to touch again and Adler… she was more headache then pleasure.

 

_'I didn't even mean it_.'

' _None of it at all._ '

 

Sherlock had just wanted to hurt, to spark some form of reaction, not to…

“I-I don’t know how to do this either. But I'm trying, I'm really trying and I wish I could be better. I want to be better. But…  _I'm trying_. So please… Just… stop.” John whispered.

The rest of the journey was quiet. Both occupants silently replaying Sherlock’s words over in the minds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's an extra long chapter because I'm am such an awful fanficcer who really should have posted before now, but uni has taken up so much time.
> 
> So again, I'm sorry for taking an whole ice-age and thank you for your patience. If anyone is still reading this, rest assured the next chapter after this is already ready to go, so don't worry about an abysmally long waiting time.
> 
> Hope this one's okay.
> 
> Enjoy. x


	10. Limits

The walk into old palmer's house was a silent one, it somewhat resembled the walk of a man on death row, going to the chair. Slow, deliberate and laced with fear and apprehension. Mina was on reception and her face lit up when she saw them approaching the desk. John returned the smile though in a somewhat subdued manner. Sherlock most certainly did not, if anything his features darkened imperceptibly.

“John!”

“Hey, Mina. I didn't think you’d be in. Weren't you meant to be out today?”

“No, no it’s on Saturday, still just prep for the next few afternoons.”

“Oh right, of course. Sor—I don’t know where my head is today.”

Mina eyed John worryingly as she watched him tap idly on the desk. She soon felt herself being watched and lifted her gaze only to meet Sherlock’s coldly intense one. “Oh, I'm sorry. You must be Sherlock, such a pleasure to meet you.”

“I'm sure.” Sherlock drawled feigning the utmost disinterest.

The air was awkward and chilly and neither Mina nor John missed it. But Mina simply shrugged it off, knowing it was probably nothing to do with her.

“Alex should be ready for you. Just go through. Oh, have a great session.”

Sherlock was about sneer at her cheeriness, until John stepped forward and patted her arm apologetically, completely missing the way Sherlock’s features froze. “I'm sorry, it’s not a good day.”

Mina put her hand over Johns and patted back reassuringly “don’t worry. I get it. Been there, remember?”

The tactile exchange was no longer than 7 seconds or so but Sherlock blood still surged within his veins. Anger pulsating within every breath he took. Sherlock decided to walk away before he said something that would make his previous outbursts look tame.

***

Sherlock stormed into Alex’s office before being invited in and paced rapidly like a caged jungle cat, waiting… just waiting for the moment it was released to maim its captor.

Alex barely even blinked, as she looked up from her notes to the pacing man before her.

“Good morning, Sherlock.” Sherlock looked up ready for a fight and then John walked in, a complete contrast to Sherlock, his shoulders slumped and features tight. After walking in John turned to shut the door pausing slightly longer than strictly necessary, he resembled a man ready to run or rather a man who a jungle cat was ready to maim.

“Good morning, John.”

“Morning” his voice was rough and sad, Alex realised today was probably going to be a less productive session.

“Bad day?” Alex asked aloud.

John’s voice was barely audible, “not great.”

Alex nodded slowly, attempting to read fully the mood of the two in the room. “Okay. So how has the last two days been? What’s new?”

Sherlock snorted derisively, “new? Nothing. Nothing ever changes.”

Alex frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I _mean_ ” Sherlock sneered, still pacing “This is pointless, coming here will change nothing because he will never change and I most certain can’t change what he needs me to, so what exactly is the point.”

“John? What are your thoughts on what Sherlock has just said?”

“I think he’s right.” Sherlock paused, and both he and Alex each raised an eyebrow at John’s words. “I think this is pointless. I think this should be our last session. I-I thought this would help but it isn't, it isn't helping at all. If anything everything just seems worse, so yeah. I'm conceding. I give up on trying. Let’s go home, Sherlock. Or at least I can go home and you can run off to hide wherever it is you go. I'm not going to bother you anymore with all this.”

John stood and held out his hand to Alex, and for the first time in years she was a little speechless by one of her patients, but held out her hand anyway, trying to read John’s dejected attitude, trying to understand why it had suddenly eclipsed him.

“Thank you, Alex. I'm sor—I wish we hadn't wasted your time.”

“No Jo—you didn't—I'm sorry I couldn't help.”

“It’s okay. Really.”

With that John walked to the door and left the room.  


***

Sherlock couldn't breathe. Sherlock didn't think he’d ever breathe again. He’d done it. He’d finally broken John. Watching the ex-army doctor as he spoke, Sherlock knew this was John giving up. He would leave him, not physically. No. like John had said, _‘there are a million ways to leave someone, Sherlock’_. This was John mentally checking out, this was John conceding to Sherlock’s will, except, now he had it, Sherlock didn't really want the concession. Sherlock had fought and fought against therapy, against John’s attempts at making them better. He had fought him every step of the way. But, just why had he fought him, Sherlock couldn't say. The outcome John wanted was the same one Sherlock strived for. _'Why am I fighting him? Idiot! Now John s gone. John said he was done, he’s never said that before. Not ever.'_

Sherlock knew more than anything he’d ever been sure of, that he had no desire for his earlier words of anger to be the last words John ever heard from him. He didn't want them to spiral into a life of silence and pretending, with _those_ words being the last that John heard.

“Bring him back Sherlock.” The softly spoken, yet firm command cut through Sherlock’s mental berating. Sherlock looked over to Alex. “Go, bring him back. I can see you panicking, so you obviously care. Go bring him back.”

“Yes. Right. Back. I’ll—” his thoughts were scattered, disjointed and irritatingly slow. “You just sta—stay here.”

 

“Alright. If you hurry you’ll catch him up.” Sherlock was half way to the door when Alex called to him. “Oh, and Sherlock? I think you should stop pushing him now. I don’t know what happened before this, what was said or done, but apparently he has his limits. I think he’s reached one even he was unaware of.”

Sherlock ducked his head, not wanting to respond or think about that just yet, he just needed to reach John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay. Two in a week, I'm going to aim for three, so hopefully the next one will be up in a couple of days.
> 
> Thank so much to those still reading this, there aren't many more chapters to go (there'll be 6 at the most).
> 
> Enjoy x


	11. Walking Through Molasses

John felt like he was walking through molasses - as if he were wading through deep, sticky liquid that was sinking him with an alarming degree of cruel slowness, descending him deeper and deeper until he was barely able to gasp for air. He’d wanted a better outcome he’d wanted to find a way back, a way to heal them—that was looking increasingly unlikely and that was hurting him more than he could ever have deemed possible.

Walking away from Alex’s office, felt like walking away from Sherlock and all they had had, all that they could've had. Walking away from Alex’s office, felt like walking towards a future of lonely-nothingness and empty silences. It felt like a purgatorial wasteland of almost-death and non-living.

It felt horrifying.

John’s hollow haze was broken by a soft voice in the short distance. He hadn't realised he’d found himself once again stood motionless within the corridor he’d stood frozen in merely three days prior.

“John? John, are you alright?”

It was the simplicity of the question which had broken the metaphorical dam he had been holding within him. His vision blurred and his hands flew up to his eyes, clawing his hair while pressing his palms deeply into his eye sockets. Warm hands soon pulled at his shoulders, as warmer arms were wrapping him into a tight embrace. He truly crumbled then, dragging his hands from his eyes and wrapping them perhaps a little too tightly around the smaller figure ‘hushing’ gentle platitudes into his ear.

“John? Darling what’s happened? What’s wrong?”

He couldn't find the words so he just held on tighter, clutching a fistful of delicate fabric, while slowly soaking the crook of the soft neck providing him comfort and somewhere to hide his face and shame. He couldn't find the right words to describe what he had lost and what he was still in the midst of losing.

 

“Talk to me, please. You’re scaring me. What’s happened?” Mina implored gently .

 

“It’s not—it—I can’t-- it’s not going work. I can’t—I can’t make it work, Mina. Why won’t it… work?”

 

To Mina’s credit she was able detect the broken words, muffled into her collarbone. “Give it time. It will. You just have to… give it time.”

 

“We don’t have it. It—we don’t have it. We don't have.”

 

“There’s no deadline, John. There’s no set time frame for things to start healing—for things to get better.”

 

John pulled back slightly still keeping a tight grasp because he felt he’d drown without the anchoring of it. “But, what if there is?”

 

Mina looked up with a soft look of confusion attached to her brow, "there is, what?"

 

John blinked and looked away, unable to keep up eye contact as he said the words. "What if... what if there is a deadline? What if—" John cleared his throat as an excuse to not finish his words, but he finished them anyway. "What if there is a time frame? What if we've missed our chance to be good again? What if there is a... deadline"

 

“There isn't, love.”

 

“But… what if _… there is_.?”

 

Before Mina could respond a new or rather an old familiar voice cut in.

 

“There _isn't_ , John.”

 

John stiffened at the sound but made no move to make eye contact.

 

“John—l” Sherlock began softly.

 

“Don’t. If all you’re going to say is something hateful, then please, just… _don’t_. At least allow me an hour’s respite… I know I don’t deserve to make any requests of you, but please at least allow me that. I can’t take it now.”

 

“John?” The doctor closed his eyes, bowed his head slightly and then miraculously straightened into his ‘Captain John’ parades rest stance. He then turned like a soldier at war, ready to face death. His eyes fearful but his face brave.

 

Sherlock swallowed hard at the sight.

 

“Okay. Your way. Always, your way. Go ahead Sherlock.”       

                                                       

There was a long pause where everyone stood frozen in their places. Sherlock facing John. John facing Sherlock. Mina tucked slightly behind John resting a supportive hand on his forearm.

 

 

The moment went on until John _almost_ \- but only almost this time - flinched when Sherlock broke it.

 

 

 

 

“John. I'm…sorry. I am so, so sorry. So truly, _truly_ sorry.”

 

 

 

Then everything stopped.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short but, I just felt it needed to stand on its own. There's another one being posted too, to make up for the shortness of this one. The next one it much longer.
> 
> Enjoy x


	12. The ‘Pretty Receptionist’

 

The moment Sherlock had turned into the corridor and spotted John’s embracing of the ‘ _pretty receptionist_ ’, he’d experienced five simultaneous warring emotions, all of which were of the same soul-burning intensity. He’d felt anger: anger at the ‘ _pretty receptionist_ ’ for touching what was most definitely not _hers_ to touch. Anger at John—for his apparent inherent weakness regarding women and emotions. Anger at himself—for his emotional response despite, his knowing logically that the venom coursing through him was merely a symptomatic anger, regarding something else entirely.

 

He’d felt jealousy: jealousy that _his_ husband was in another person’s arms—another _woman’s_ arms.

 

 Yet again.

 

He’d felt resentment: resentment for the ‘ _pretty receptionist_ ’—for obvious reasons, but also then resentment more fiercely for John. Who was _he_ to be crying? What right did _he_ have to be the one to breakdown? What _right_ did _he_ have to seek comfort?

 

He’d felt shame: shame that he had been cruel enough to of caused such an outstanding emotional collapsing in one of the strongest, most stoic men he’s ever come across. Shame—that the ‘ _pretty receptionist_ ’ was able to comfort _his_ husband better than _he_ ever could. Shame—that he too craved such a form of comfort, but had no clue as to how to ask for it.

 

He’d felt remorse: remorse for the words he’d spat at John. Remorse—for his ingratitude to Mycroft for the lifeline he’d given him in telling them of Alex. Remorse—that he was wasting the opportunity. Remorse—for his hatred of the ‘ _pretty receptionist_ ’ who was providing something to the man he loved, that Sherlock couldn't. Remorse—for the part he had played in landing them here in the first place. Remorse—for the small spark of joy he felt at John’s hurt.

 

‘ _He still cares. He’s still emotionally involved. He’s still in this._ ’

 

After Sherlock had combated his initial indignant, hackle-rising ire. Sherlock had simply stopped and observed. He observed how John  _wasn't_  just embracing the ‘ _pretty receptionist_ ’, he was clutching on to her as if he were drowning… as if he were _dying_. It wasn't seductive whispers coming out of her mouth but barely suppressed panic and worry-filled platitudes of care. This wasn't attraction and affection, this was a desperate need for reassurance and anchoring.

 

This was pure pain.

This was what John hid from him.

 

***

 

Sherlock stood watching the scene before him, for an indeterminable amount of time, just trying to comprehend just how John was still standing. The fact that John had been suppressing so much agony, made something in Sherlock’s chest twist into an actual physical ache. He hadn't missed it completely, he’d seen the hurt, but only the surface hurt – the one he turned away from too uncomfortable to see it, too inexperienced to deal with it. He had had no real clue that the misery of their situation ran so deep within the man before him.

 

His thoughts were broken by an exchange between the two people in front of him.

 

_"What if... what if there is a deadline? What if—"_

_"What if there is a time frame? What if we've missed our chance to be good again? What if there is a... deadline"_

_“There isn't, love.”_

_“But… what if… there is.?”_

Sherlock’s heart constricted at the implication of John’s words, his mouth opened before the ‘ _pretty receptionist_ ’ ever had a chance to counter John.

“There  _isn't_ , John.”

 

The sight of John’s instinctual rigidity and the rapid transformation in his demeanour at the mere sound of his voice tore at something, deep within the detective. He needed John to look at him, he needed to see John’s eyes, and he needed to see that John still loved him. He needed comfort. He needed reassurance. He needed anchoring. 

 

He needed John.

 

“John—l” Sherlock started softly.

“Don’t. If all you’re going to say is something hateful, then please, just…  _don’t_. At least allow me an hour’s respite… I know I don’t deserve to make any requests of you, but please at least allow me that. I can’t take it now.”

Sherlock’s throat constricted.     

“John?” He had started to plead, stopping short when he saw it.

Saw the _‘Captain John’_ stance. Sherlock watched as John’s stature changed and hardened with military precision – his armour slipping into place – ready to be launched at.

Sherlock swallowed hard at the sight, it was worse than he’d thought.

 _‘I'm going to lose him.’_ And Sherlock’s—well, everything stalled at the realisation – at the revelation.

 

“Okay. Your way. Always, your way. Go ahead Sherlock.”       

                                                       

There was an extended pause and Sherlock couldn't think, couldn't get passed those five little words. _‘I'm going to lose him.’_ It was clear no one was going to make a move or say anything until Sherlock did – so everyone simply stood frozen in their places. Sherlock facing John. John facing Sherlock. The ‘ _pretty receptionist_ ’ tucked slightly behind John… _touching him_.

_‘I'm going to lose him.’_

At thinking them again, Sherlock’s words rushed out of him, without filter or thought – just blind panic.                                                                

“John. I'm…sorry. I am so, so sorry. So truly,  _truly_  sorry.”

 

The look of astonishment in John’s eyes had been breath-taking and Sherlock had felt a surge pride burn right through him – at the knowledge that he had been the one to put it there. That was of course until the look had began to transform into an expression of wary-confusion.

John’s voice was hoarse when he spoke. “Why, are _you_ sorry?”

The detective’s brows furrowed as he searched to find the right words. “I've been… difficult. Antagonistic… _cruel._ John. I've been cruel.” Sherlock finished quietly.

John shook his head, “You've had the right, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shook his head too. “No, no I haven’t.”

“Yes. You have. I've given you the right.”

“John—”

“No, let me finish. If—if it had been you… I’d have been upset. I would have been hurt. And, I would have had the right to be those things, don’t you think?”

“Yes. Yes, of course – _hurt and upset_ —but—but not wilfully _destructive_ and _obstructive_ to fixing what’s gone wrong. Not to deliberately trying to cause harm, you wouldn't have had that right. No one does.”

“I ruined us - so you do the right, Sherlock.”

“Nothing’s ruined. Not yet. We can fix it, we can make it better. Come back in with me. We can fix it.”

“We tried it in there - it hasn't worked, Sherlock. If anything I feel twice as bad now, than I did three days ago. And, you don’t look like you’re fairing much better.”

“We haven’t tried— _I—I_ haven’t tried – not really. But I will now, now I know what I have to lose. Now, I know the fear – now I know what the threat of you leaving me feels like.”

“I've told you, I'd never be able to leave you, not unless you physically throw me out at least.”

“ _There are a million ways to leave someone, John._ And, you almost just didn't. I won’t allow that to happen again.”

 

They stood watching each for a moment before the ‘ _pretty receptionist_ ’ cracked open the silence.

 

“I’ll leave you two to it then, you seem to have everything in hand.” She rubbed John’s arm affectionately and before Sherlock could bristle, she had turned and walked towards him. He’d warily watched her approach, ready to verbally attack her before she did him – only to be stalled and caught off-guard by her tiny hand slipping into his. She used her other hand to take hold of his wrist. Sherlock looked down to the point of contact and back up into her eyes, momentarily startled by the intensity within her gaze. He simply wasn't used to being on this side of such powerful contemplation.

 

She smiled at him.

 

She. _Smiled_. At. _Him_.

 

Sherlock was confused.

 

“Well done, Sherlock. Well done for fighting. Well done for coming after him. That was so, so brave. You – are so brave. John’s as incredibly lucky to have you, as you are him. You’re going to be just fine. You’re _doing_ \- _just fine_.”

 

The sound that escaped Sherlock’s throat took him by surprise, the feel of her hand in his seemed to sooth something he didn't even realised had been shattered. The ‘ _pretty receptionist_ ’— _Mina,_ although standing in front of him, had become blurred. He thought maybe he was going momentarily blind until he felt a larger hand rest gently against his cheek, before smoothing away the moisture that had found its way there. Suddenly he could see again. He could see John, he could see John’s warm yet tired eyes, his sad but gentle smile, his firm but soft hand on his cheek. _He could see John._ His vision blurred again, but before he could panic he felt a gentle pull on the back of his neck until his head was rested softly on John’s good shoulder. His arms flew around John’s middle and he melted against him when John began to tenderly hush his quiet gasps for air – all the while, John delicately stroked Sherlock’s curls.

 

 _‘I'm breathing,’ ‘I'm home’, ‘John’ ‘I'm breathing,’_ was the mantra that was chanting inside his head, until it all went blissfully quiet.

 

When Sherlock spoke his voice was nothing short of a croak, “Come back in with me. We _can_ fix it.”

 

John’s reply was low but, it resounded through the detective’s eardrums as if it had been blasted over high definition speakers.

 

“Alright love, alright.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two in a day - that's a steady improvement.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this one. (It's my fave)
> 
> Next update will hopefully be in a couple of days, sooner if I can.
> 
> Thanks for reading x


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